One thin use
Of the fast-grown
Cottonwood
Is its shade
Barking up
Arroyos
A storm
Short-tempered
Thick limbs away
Slakes a promise
To flood
To melt the clay
And cast the man
Beyond each dry
Defining sun
Anvil clouds
Chain the mountains
With stitches of light
And evaporate
Sparking nothing but static
From the creosote bush
Under this stand
Fire weeds have lodged
Too dry to leave
Throwing shade
The cottonwood crown
Inspires loyalty
But no hope
It's bad wood
For building
As another storm
Makes a smoky approach
Tom McGlynn
copyright 2013
No comments:
Post a Comment